American Blackout (Book 3): Gangster Town

by Tribuzzo, Fred

  “My information is central to this case.”

  The judge brought down the gavel hard. “Miss Cricket, you lie to the court about your credentials—”

  “I can give specifics.”

  The judge waited for Ralph.

  “Go ahead,” he said, aiming for the jury box, where he stood alongside the foreman, a slender black woman dressed to the nines.

  Cricket started by addressing the judge and then turning to the jury.

  “My father was a cop and became chief of police ten years ago. He taught me right from wrong at home and on patrol, where I started driving along as a teen with him and the other policeman. What I saw every time I went out were people forgetting right from wrong and failing to exercise personal responsibility. Every crime I witnessed had those two elements.”

  “That explanation is a long way from the reality of climate change.” Ralph looked troubled. Maybe he had a soft spot for Cricket, was already falling in love with her and not wanting to see her sent to some island prison, Cricket surmised.

  “Actually, we should be talking about man-made climate change, or man-made global warming. By not naming correctly the weather disaster mankind is supposedly creating, you’ve shown a lack of personal responsibility and know a lot less about climate science than me.”

  The judge was confused. She didn’t know if her prosecutor had been insulted or not. She was ready to jump in and chew up Cricket, but waited for her prosecutor to make his move.

  “You’re clever, Miss Cricket,” the prosecutor said. “Do you come by your native intelligence through study and college, or were you just born that way?”

  “I avoided college like the plague. But I’ve listened to Rush Limbaugh for the past twelve years.”

  He shot back, “Being a Rush listener makes you an expert on nothing, except shooting off your mouth.”

  Many of the mob were out of their seats, and the judge used her gavel to quiet the crowd. It took several minutes for her to gain control. Close to the defense table, Cricket heard the moans of a college boy and girl almost in tears that someone would deny global warming and actually utter Rush Limbaugh’s name.

  “That’s probably the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” the judge said, “and mean to boot. I think I’ll have a trial for ole Limbaugh in absentia. That’s one dude I’d like to take his ass apart every Wednesday. Twice on Sunday.”

  Cricket raised her hand like she wanted to be called on. “I know about the climate not only from listening to Rush Limbaugh but from several books I read on the topic. It ties in with my ambition to someday study to become a geologist.”

  The judge stood and pointed her gavel at Cricket. “What the hell do rocks and Limbaugh have to do with the weather?”

  Ralph, trying to be relevant, said, “Judge, I think you meant to say ‘climate,’ not ‘weather.’”

  “I know what I’m saying. And I’ll say it all day. Man is changing the damn weather.”

  “I agree. It’s pretty cold this winter,” Cricket said.

  “Damn right it is, and you can blame global warming on that one, too.”

  “You haven’t helped your cause at all, Ms. Cricket.” Ralph returned from the jury box and stood in front of the witness.

  Cricket replied, “This isn’t about causes. It’s about right and wrong. How we should treat people. And, of course, maintain our personal responsibility.”

  As if Cricket cued the next act, a group of maybe ten young souls came screaming into the courtroom playing the “Sabre Dance” on kazoos.

  The gaggle of pied pipers—all on metal kazoos—swept past Cricket and circled Judge Maxine’s bench. Initially everyone simply watched. Then applause broke out, and laughter. The judge rubbed her chin and finally nodded at uniformed police officers along the back wall. Like madcap comedians trying to capture butterflies with a net, they went to work trying to corral the student artists without manhandling them.

  A tall, skinny kid, who had fallen behind the tune’s tempo, rushed Cricket. The kazoo extended from his mouth, screeching out one long note, and Cricket instantly jumped from her seat and nailed the musician with a right hook when he came within striking distance. She caught his lower jaw and sent the toy instrument flying toward the jury. The kid crashed on his side and screamed, hitting the floor.

  Luckily, the judge took Cricket’s side and yelled down at the kid that he had really screwed up big-time. One officer started dragging the kid away. The kid started yelling that he wanted his kazoo.

  To the officer, the judge said, “Put that kazoo where the sun don’t shine.”

  The kid was sticking his tongue out at Cricket when the lights went black. The general noise of the room shifted to yelling and panicked voices. Cricket moved around the back of the chair just as someone struck it with something heavy, probably a bat.

  “Anyone get near me and I’ll beat ’im upside the head with this gavel.” The judge punctuated her sentence with a pound of her legal instrument—much better than a kazoo. “This has happened before. The damn generator runs out of fuel or a bad something or other trips it off. Hold on to your seats. Stay right where you’re at and you’ll be fine. Wander around in the dark and I promise you, you’ll catch all kinds of shit.”

  A terrible scream shot through the courtroom. Cricket’s arms bristled—death was moving among the blind. Finally someone opened the back doors, and light from a room down the corridor illuminated enough of the exit that people stormed the opening.

  “You’re just gonna hurt yourself,” the judge yelled, and the gavel followed with three loud smacks.

  Cricket squinted when the lights came back on, and one of the kazoo players lay dead in the middle of the floor, near the defense table. The kazoo had been shoved deep into the left eye socket, imitating the thin slits of some old sci-fi robot, or maybe a Borg.

  “Damn,” the judge cried out, pointing at the body. “Look at that mess. Now it’s even dangerous to play a kazoo in public.”

  35

  Angels on a Frozen Lake

  After time with the girls hearing about their day of prayer, music, and games, Cricket sat alone with Sister Marie in a room off the kitchen. Fritz was still flying, and Predator and the two Bobs were staying at Lunken that night to keep a watchful eye on the P-51 Mustang, Piper Cub, and Citabria. National Guard troops were being diverted to small towns east of Cincinnati, where slavers were expected to make an appearance with their catch and ready them for the voyage downriver.

  Becca and her mother had dinner with their new guests and then disappeared for the evening.

  “What did they do with that poor man who was murdered?” Sister asked. “What of his family?”

  “Paramedics were standing by and they carted him off—I guess to the morgue. He had no identification. Angel arranged for the medics to use an old station wagon.”

  Sister Marie shook her head. “I guess a family member would first go to a nearby hospital, looking for someone missing.”

  “That judge is a real piece of work,” Cricket said. “She said to get that one-eyed pirate out of her courtroom. No one showed any compassion. I mean, he was an ass running in there with his pals and blowing their little kazoos. But he didn’t deserve the death penalty.”

  “Becca, was she there?”

  “No, some meeting with council members.”

  “Well, it’s good that Angel was there.”

  Cricket had watched Angel the entire time she remained in the courtroom, and Angel kept an eye on Cricket, which she appreciated. Without a gun, with only her gravity knife, the place now gave her the jitters. She had heard that the group was made up of “harmless” anarchists with the goal of disrupting what they disagreed with—nothing violent, only theater. She knew that she was a disrupter, too, protesting the distance people were moving away from the principles upon which the country had been founded.

  “I missed Angel at dinner,” Sister Marie admitted.

  “A real charmer?”


  “He’s honest and confident. And has those qualities in spades.”

  “Oh my, Sister, do you have a crush on him?”

  Sister blushed. “I wouldn’t call it that. I have respect for people who know themselves well. It can be a virtue for helping others.”

  Cricket agreed with everything but added nothing else. Alone in her room, waiting for her husband’s return, she lay down in bed and fell asleep.

  In her dream she skated on a frozen Ohio River, something she could not do in real life. Yet in this dream landscape, she glided and turned with practiced skill. Angel came up alongside her and firmly grabbed hold of her hand and led her in a dance on the ice.

  She remembered Cary Grant in The Bishop’s Wife. Grant, an angel who had come to earth to counsel a minister obsessed with building a cathedral, forgetting the important things in life, like his wife, friends, and parishioners.

  In Cricket’s dream they skated in a large circle on a frozen lake, yet Cricket sensed that Angel sought to lead her somewhere, that there was something more for her to see. But she already knew the destination. An erotic surge splashed over her, and she panicked and woke up.

  Fritz still hadn’t come home, and she got dressed and went to the spacious living room with its large, comfortable chairs and a big fireplace that still crackled with life. She wanted to wake up Sister and tell her of the dream and confess her feelings for Angel. She loved Fritz. But the dream loomed, a life-size fantasy that troubled her.

  36

  Dive-Bomb

  Ajax flew over Cincinnati, also called Porkopolis, so named in the nineteenth century for its hog-packing enterprise and pigs roaming the streets. He felt jealous and indignant that Cricket was so drawn to an ordinary airplane when she possessed the ability to fly without having to sit in an aluminum box with wings.

  He perched on a tree overlooking where the P-51 was hangared and watched her young husband climb into the Plymouth Barracuda and head home to the woman whom Ajax loved. His shadow covered the roof of Fritz’s car, and he dive-bombed the vehicle like a hawk after a rodent. But this rodent was protected by the laws of this dream world. Fritz was among the living and therefore safe. Nonetheless, Ajax struck again and roared as if he could change the laws of nature and kill anyone or anything he desired.

  He worked himself into a frenzy, climbing higher in the dark and repeating the attack. He finally gave up and followed Fritz home to the big Tudor on the river. The house was larger, leaning in this dark otherworld. It looked like a place Ajax might call home.

  37

  By the Fire

  Cricket added a log to the fire, found an afghan, and curled up on the couch. She heard light footsteps and smiled, seeing Lee Ann. The child complained of feeling sick and very cold and Cricket felt her forehead, saying no fever. She pulled the afghan around the girl, holding her close.

  “You’re not worried about getting sick?” Lee Ann asked.

  “Not at all.”

  “I think Lily is sick too.”

  “In the morning Sister Marie will look at you. We have canned fruit and vegetables. We’re very lucky to be living here.”

  Lee Ann paused before speaking, and Cricket knew her mistake. They had been teaching the children to honor God, the values of American history as proclaimed in the Declaration of Independence that Lee Ann had been studying and memorizing. Luck had nothing to do with those adults who had repeatedly risked their lives for the group, some even dying, like Hank Holaday, Fritz’s grandfather. And now Cricket had brought in flippantly the idea of luck, which was really down the scale in making human destiny. What was termed luck, good or bad, were complex forces in life that were not always apparent but could be altered, mitigated, or simply ignored.

  “I feel that God brought us here, to this place at this time. Cricket, am I wrong?”

  “You’re absolutely right, Lee Ann. Thanks for reminding me.”

  They both heard the garage door open, and minutes later Fritz and Predator walked in. They were escorted by John, Becca’s favorite bodyguard. He was the driver who had first taken them to the house for Christmas Day dinner. The girls always smiled when they saw John the driver: linebacker size, warm, and generous, having made wooden ornaments for Lily and Lee Ann. He spoke of nothing outside of the weather and asking the girls how they were doing.

  Predator walked to the fire and fed it several more logs. Fritz kissed his wife, and Lee Ann covered her mouth, saying she was sick.

  “I hope you didn’t get it from me,” Predator said. “I got some kind of bug, too. Like to go to sleep until April.”

  “Wow, that’d be a long time,” Lee Ann said seriously. “I was hoping we’d both be better this weekend. Mrs. Givens wants to take us to the zoo.”

  “We still have a few days, young lady. We need our rest.”

  “And have Sister Marie look us over,” Lee Ann instructed with a smile.

  Predator gave a short laugh and then clutched his chest and fell to his knees.

  38

  The Hospital

  Predator opened his mouth, and a nurse slipped a nitroglycerin tablet under his tongue. He closed his eyes, grimaced, and waited. The chest pains had yet to subside.

  “It’ll work quickly,” Sister said, leaning over Predator, a hand on his shoulder.

  He nodded and wanted to say something, probably smart-ass, Cricket figured.

  Predator’s floor was well-lit and everyone was dressed for their roles, even the maintenance and cleaning staff in blue. He was on the first floor.

  “Give us some time with the patient,” the doctor on duty said.

  Sister and Cricket walked down the hall, and Cricket pointed to the exit that led to the floors above. The place was alive with hospital staff, and other rooms showed patients with family members and the medical team analyzing charts, setting up IVs.

  Curious if the other floors had light and activity, Cricket led Sister through the door marked “Exit.” Darkness hid the stairs, and no light came from the doors leading to the other floors.

  Sister said, “Guess it makes sense to conserve. Maybe they use the other floors during the day? Outpatient procedures.”

  “Yeah, I wonder. It can’t be much fun being carried up and down on a stretcher.”

  Cricket thought of Becca’s dad in the basement room. The only room lit. She hadn’t yet told Sister of the strange encounter with a man they all believed had died after the EMP attack.

  “Sister, I’ll be right back. I need to check a few floors above. Why don’t you stay with Predator?”

  “Oh, Cricket, is it really necessary to check now? Let’s ask a nurse, someone who doesn’t look busy.”

  “Don’t say anything. They’re all busy.”

  Her flashlight leading the way, Cricket flew up the steps and Sister’s voice trailed, “Please be careful, you might trip. Hospitals have to make very tough choices in rationing drugs and treatment.”

  “I know,” Cricket shot back, not sure if Sister heard her. She reached the next landing and peered through a dark window onto the second floor.

  She slowly pushed open the door. No light. No sound. Her flashlight led the way. All the doors were open and the rooms were dark and empty, except for beds with no sheets. There were no signs of a rapid evacuation: nothing spilled or broken, no table knocked onto its side. Satisfied that the floor had simply been abandoned, she left for the staircase and climbed to the next level.

  At the next floor, she pushed the door open and heard voices. She switched off her Maglite and closed the door quietly and stared down the dark hallway. Three men with flashlights, carrying a woman on a stretcher, disappeared, apparently headed to another exit. They didn’t see Cricket, and made jokes and leaned close to the woman, saying something she couldn’t hear.

  Cricket could have followed them but decided against it. She propped open the door with a broom she found standing in the corner, and crept halfway down the hall as the men were departing with the woman. From a table she picke
d up a digital alarm clock that had died when the world went dark. She threw it down the hallway, and the racket of its shattering against the wall startled her. She retreated into the room.

  The men yelled and flew down the hall past her, flashlights slicing the darkness ahead. Before they got to the exit door Cricket had propped open, she ran as quietly as she could to the stretcher. An old woman stared into her flashlight beam.

  “Where are they taking you?” Cricket asked, out of breath.

  The woman stared at Cricket, eyes wide in a mask of fear, as if Cricket were just another fiend sent to torment her.

  “They said I was going to a better place. A place where I’d be happy. I believed them until they laughed. I saw their faces. They’re devils. Please help me.”

  “Can I pick you up?” Cricket asked.

  “You do look strong.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you carrying you down the stairs. Any IVs, tubes, catheters?”

  “No. I’ll be fine.”

  The woman was light and brittle, and Cricket’s flashlight showed an exit at the end of the wing. During the brief time that she had been talking with the woman, the men had been checking out the stairwell and working their way back toward them, talking excitedly to one another, worry at the top of their voices. Cricket held the Maglite in her mouth and started down the steps. The old woman curled in a ball against Cricket’s body.

  When footsteps started pounding down the stairs above her, Cricket knew she couldn’t reach the first floor in time. She shouldered open the door to the second-floor hallway, and ducked into the first room and lay the woman on a bed. She drew her Colt.

  “Why am I here?” the old woman asked, fear rising. Cricket worried she’d soon start yelling.

  “It’s me! The girl who carried you down the steps. There are men following us.”